by Karen Welch
She laid her head on his shoulder. “And I love you. Oh, Stani, I love being in love with you.”
Afraid to wrinkle her pristine uniform, he held her very gently. “Shouldn't you be going? It's getting late.”
“I know. I just wanted to be sure you have everything you need for the night. There's a new toothbrush in the bathroom. And I turned down the bed for you. If you get hungry, there's food in the fridge. Oh, and don't worry about the fire, it'll burn itself out.”
He helped her into her coat, turning the collar up around her ears. “You'll be careful? Is it a long drive?”
“Twenty miles. Not bad. I'll be home before eight. Will you be up by then?” Her hand was on the knob, and she turned back with a twinkle in her eyes. “Or will I need to wake you?”
“Go! For an angel of mercy, you have a frighteningly devilish gleam in your eye.”
She went out laughing. Through the heavy door, he heard her voice, calling in a sweet sing-song, “I love you, Stani. Sleep tight.”
Chapter Forty-seven
The house was a living thing. It creaked and groaned, rattled and sighed. As Stani tried to read, every sound stirred him until he decided to put on a record to cover the noise. Outside, the wind blew through the trees, moving the shadows across the lawn and setting the porch swing swaying. He closed the drapes, set the turntable spinning and tried to settle down again. It was past midnight, he should go to bed, but the thought held little appeal. When Jack had called, just after Emily's departure, he had wished him a good night, saying if he needed anything, just call. He needed Emily, he mused, and calling Jack would not solve his problem.
The book he had chosen turned dry and impossible to follow. Searching the shelves, his eye fell on a large leather album, its spine bearing the simple title, “Emily.” Now here was something to keep him entertained, he decided.
It began with a grainy photograph of a tiny, dark-haired infant, her fists clenched on either side of her face. “Jiliand Emily Haynes, age two days.” The caption was written in a graceful hand, its fountain-penned curves seeming to express a wealth of emotion. And the name; he made a note to ask for that explanation someday.
As Stani turned the pages, he realized her mother had been the official keeper of this record. Each entry was labeled in the fine handwriting, each photograph marking some milestone in her daughter's life. “Emily's first Christmas.” “Emily's first birthday.” “Emily and J.D. on her first day of school.” The little girl was growing, from the laughing toddler to the grinning child on her first bicycle. “Emily, age six, with her prize-winning pumpkin” showed her standing proudly over the pumpkin, her smile displaying the gap of two missing teeth. The snapshot of a seriously smiling Emily wearing a frilly dress, flanked by two young boys, was labeled “Emily, age eight, with James and Peter McConnell on Easter Sunday.”
She was beautiful even then, he thought, her sweet, expressive little face showing every sign of the woman to come. In every picture, she was smiling, projecting a joy that seemed to leap off the page. With her hand in her father's, she appeared confident as they made their way up the steps to the front door of the school. Standing next to an abundantly blooming bush, she was beaming as she proudly presented her mother with a rose.
As he turned further in the book, a subtle change became apparent. The smile was still there, but it had taken on a brave quality. By age twelve, the girl with long, dark braids over her shoulders wore a look of defiant cheerfulness. Her pale eyes reflected a growing wisdom, as though her knowledge of life were rapidly advancing beyond her years. One particular photograph brought the change into focus with startling clarity. Emily was standing with her father at the edge of the garden. In a nearby chair, her mother sat watching the two, and the look in her own pale eyes spoke volumes. She was painfully thin, and her lovely face was now marred with suffering. The expression on the sweet face of the girl was one of fierce determination, as if it cost her no end of effort to achieve that sad little smile. Her father’s face was slightly out of focus, as if he had just turned to his wife at the moment the shutter clicked. The caption, in the same fine hand, now showing a distinct unsteadiness, read simply, “Emily, age fourteen, Summer 1964.”
The carefully mounted photographs gave way to empty pages. Tucked in the back of the book were several loose pictures. Emily in cap and gown at her high school graduation. A snapshot of her standing arm in arm with Lil, apparently on Lil's graduation day. A formal shot of Emily in her nurse's uniform, taken when she completed her training. Here was his own beautiful girl, but with that wistful smile he remembered so vividly from his dream. Here was the Emily he had seen the day they first met on the front porch, before somehow the light had come back in her eyes. Had he been responsible for that light that now sparkled whenever she looked at him?
He turned back to the shot of the three of them, studying her as she stood so bravely in the sunlight. This was the girl Angela had talked about, who had taken on so much so soon. Emily rarely talked of her mother's illness, and then only in the most general terms. She never spoke of her own suffering. As he stared at the girlish features, his heart opened, a physical response to what he saw reflected in those eyes. He wished desperately to reach out and take that girl in his arms, to shield her against whatever had brought that pain into her young life.
Gently closing the book and placing it back on the shelf, he realized he had gained very special access to the woman he loved by looking at her young life through the eyes of her mother. That book had been a gift, left for him to find as he made his way into Emily's world. Meeting her friends, seeing where she lived, was all valuable information, but those photographs recording the years when she had grown so rapidly into a woman, were the most enlightening.
As he went to bed, shivering for a time between the cold sheets, he tried to say a prayer of thanksgiving. He had never known how to pray beyond a few formal phrases. Now he opened his thoughts, hoping God would decipher the web of emotions and images. He would understand his inadequacies, grant him dispensation for having come so recently to communicating in this way. Stani thought that if God understood anything, it was how grateful he was for the knowledge of Emily, for the honor of loving her and making her smile.
Stani woke at seven as the morning light was just seeping through the chink in the drapes. He rushed into his clothes, brushed his teeth and made a pointless attempt to tame his hair with the pocket comb Emily had laid out on the dresser. Wishing he had a sweater to put on against the chill, he nevertheless rolled up his shirtsleeves and headed purposefully for the fireplace. There were embers glowing, a good sign, he hoped. After a few moments of poking at them, he laid on a large pine cone from the kindling basket, as he had seen her do, and the resulting flames gave him courage. Adding a smallish log, he waited and to his amazement, the fire caught. Triumphant, he watched it build, carefully added another log, and then turned toward the kitchen.
By the time her car entered the gate, he had laid a tray with tea and slices of her cinnamon bread on the table by the window. Carefully pouring juice into glasses, he congratulated himself on setting the scene for her return. Now if he could only have a half hour or so of uninterrupted time with her. The thought that this might at last be the moment sent a shiver of anticipation—and just a tiny shudder of fear—through his unexpectedly tense body.
She was smiling, coming up the steps to greet him; and the sight of that smile reminded him of last night's journey. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked how he had slept.
“Fine. The house is certainly vocal, though. It talked to me all night.” He chuckled, relieving her of her coat and watching as she sat down at the table and removed her shoes. “Rough night?”
“Frantic.” Stretching her legs in front of her, she wiggled her toes inside the white stockings.
“Poor darling. Maybe a little tea will help.” As he poured, she reached up and unpinned the little cap, pulling the pins from her hair and shaking it loose. Something inside hi
s ribcage did a queer little twist, and for a moment he thought he might have to gasp for air.
“Oh, it was wonderful. We were busy all night, never a moment to spare. I love it when it's like that.” Turning her full attention to the tray, she took a slice of the bread and began to eat with relish.
He sat across from her, taking a moment to regulate his breathing. “Really? What sort of things do you see in a rural emergency room? Not the kind of violent things they get in New York, surely.”
“Oh, no. Let's see. We had a child with a raging fever due to an ear infection. Then there was a man who needed fifteen stitches in his hand after trying to make a ham sandwich using the electric carving knife he gave his wife for Christmas. Two women in labor, one real and one false. Oh, and three brothers who apparently had a little disagreement and beat each other up pretty thoroughly, then drove themselves to the hospital to get patched up. When they sober up, they're all going to be surprised at the damage they did to each other.” Draining her cup, she held it out for more tea. “One poor lady dragged her husband in convinced he was having a heart attack. Turned out he’d just eaten too much cabbage soup. She was really mad at him for not being more seriously ill.”
Stani laughed. “So it was an exciting night. You look amazingly fresh for someone who worked so hard.” He went to the fireplace, added a log, and turned to find her standing behind him. Gathering her into his arms, he studied her face, trying to determine how tired she might be.
“I'm fine. I think I'll just sit by this beautiful fire for a while, before I shower.” Taking his hand, she led him to the couch, pulling him down beside her. When she curled at his side, her head resting on his shoulder, Stani considered his options. He could begin now, or perhaps it would be better this afternoon, once she'd had some sleep. If she were too tired, he might risk tipping her emotional balance in the wrong direction. On the other hand, she was snuggled so sweetly against him the moment was certainly full of potential.
He tested the waters with a kiss. Warm and responsive, definitely promising. “Emily, do you understand what it is I feel for you?” It was a simple question, but it opened the door to much more.
“Um. Much the same as I feel for you, I think.” With a sigh, she nestled closer, and just as he might have expected, her hand wandered into his shirt. He took a moment to bury his face in her hair, breathing in the warm freshness. His arms tightened around her and he let his hand slide down the firm sweep of her back, coming to rest on the gentle curve between waist and hip.
“I want you, Emily, want you for always. Do you understand that?” Her answer was another sigh. He waited for more, but she only curled closer, her arm slipping down to his waist. “Emily, darling?” As he shifted gently to look into her eyes, her head slumped lower on his chest, her hair cascading across his shirt. He let out a low moan. Just like that, in the middle of his declaration of undying love, Emily had fallen asleep.
He left her there for a time, stroking her hair and staring into the fire. At least she was in his arms. And they were alone. His timing had been all wrong. He should have waited. Now he would have to begin again, from the beginning, assuming she wouldn't remember what he’d said. With a grin, he listened to her softly snoring against his chest. He loved her, and no matter what, he intended to speak his piece before the day was out. In the meantime, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing she trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms. Small consolation, but it was something. And he needed something to keep his courage up. This was proving to be more challenging than he had ever anticipated.
Chapter Forty-eight
It was well past three when Jack dropped him back at the farmhouse. His visit with Pastor Mike had been more helpful than he’d expected, and he felt strong and sure as he approached the front door. With the exception of the brief conversation he'd had with Peter McConnell, just as he was leaving the church, everything seemed to point the way clearly for his plan to go forward. He’d tried to shake off the moment of doubt aroused when Peter had asked if he and Emily were “serious.” While he hadn't been specific, he had said “Of course” with as much confidence as he could muster.
“I wish you luck, man. Emily can be real stubborn, and she's had her mind made up for a long time. You'll be the first if you manage to break her down.”
Stani hadn't much liked the phrasing, but he sensed that Peter spoke from experience. He wanted to reply that she loved him, that he was the one she'd been waiting for; but instead, he just smiled and said, “Thanks.”
Now as he put his hand on the doorknob, he took a deep breath, hoping to still the sudden fluttering in his gut. This was the time when he most needed to be calm, in control. For once, he longed for the kind of confidence he felt only on stage. Maybe a few minutes with the old violin would ease his nerves. Turning the knob with a firm grip, he plunged on. Now or never, here and now, do or die.
“Hi! I was beginning to wonder whether you were coming back.” Emily was coming down the stairs, a vision in blue jeans and a fuzzy pink sweater. She had tied her hair in a ponytail high at the back of her head, and it swung from side to side as she bounced toward him. Sixteen, he thought; she looked no more than a teenager, with her shining face and that adorable hairstyle. He couldn't possibly say what he had planned to this innocent child.
But when she came onto his arms, seizing his mouth in one of those long, sweet kisses, he was once again reassured. As she stripped off his overcoat, pulling him by the hand toward the couch, he laughed. “My goodness, a few hours’ sleep certainly seems to have put the spring back in your step.”
“I don't need a lot of sleep. Nurse's training teaches you to nap well. Now, tell me about your visit with Pastor Mike. Was it good?”
“Yes. It was. And that's all I intend to say on that subject just now. We have things to talk about, Emily, and before we're interrupted again, I want to get something said.” Searching her face, he saw her eyes darken slightly. Surely it wasn't fear that snuffed out her smile so thoroughly?
“Things?”
He couldn't resist brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead. At his touch she started, and he realized she was waiting breathlessly for him to go on. “Emily, I want you, want you for always. Do you understand me?” His voice was none too sure, raspy with emotion.
She nodded solemnly. “I think so.”
“There's something I have to tell you. Please let me finish before you say anything.” He turned her gently to look straight into her eyes, holding her at arm's length.
Again she nodded. “I'm not going to like this, am I?”
“Shh. Listen. Give me a chance.” He took a breath. “I'm going to Europe. No, don't say anything! I have to leave the end of January. It's been in the works for over a year; there's no way to change things now. Before I go, I want you to come to New York. I want you to see my world, meet some of the people who are part of that world. It isn't like here, for you. It isn't really my home, but it is where I work much of the time, and it's where I've spent a lot of my life. I want you to have a chance to see what my world looks like even though I wouldn't expect you to want to live there. Will you, please, come to New York, give me this chance?”
“How long will you be gone?” It was as if she hadn't heard anything he'd said beyond his announcement.
“Three months.” The very words sounded cruel.
“Three. . .when were you going to tell me?” Her eyes sparked, like flint he thought.
“I'm telling you now. I wanted us to have this—Christmas—before we had to think about it. Emily, don't be angry! I didn't want to worry you. I just wanted us to be happy together for a few days.”
She had jumped up, going to the fireplace and standing with her back to him. “You knew all along. Why not tell me? Were you just going to send me a postcard? 'By the time you read this, I'll be gone'?”
He crossed the room, taking her firmly by the shoulders and turning her to face him. “That's not fair! I intended to tell you. But you have to
admit, we haven't had much time alone. There seems to always be something going on here. I was trying this morning, but you fell asleep!” The tiniest trace of a smile crossed her face, as his voice caught on a squeaky note. With a deep breath, he went on more calmly, “I wanted to have plenty of time to talk things over, to make plans with you. Emily, darling, it's not as if I won't be back. I'll go and do what I have to do there, and you'll be here working and planting your garden. Then I'll come back and we'll be together, I promise. Won't you at least give me a chance to explain?”
“Explain what?” She was calm now, her anger gone as quickly as it had flared.
“First, will you come to New York?” He led her back to the couch, standing over her as she slowly took a seat.
“I don't know. How would I get there? Where would I stay?”
“I have all that worked out. Will you come?”
Emily seemed to sift through a great many thoughts. When she finally looked up, there were tears in her eyes. “I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't.”
Stani sat down abruptly. “Why not?”
“Milo.” The finality in the one word suggested he should understand.
“Milo? What has he to do with it? You don't even know Milo.” A slow-rising foreboding crept through him like a chill.
“But he knows who I am. Have you told him you've been coming here to see me?” Her voice was flat, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“No, but it wouldn't matter. Emily, what is this about? I don't understand at all.” He frantically searched his mind for something he must have missed, something Milo had done behind his back. “Please, love, tell me.” He tried to raise her chin, to look into her eyes, but she resisted.
“Milo won't like it. He won't approve. I couldn't face him, Stani. Surely you can understand that.”